At the Inn
by StarkContrastStartles
Summary: A woman is waiting for Stephen to improve on the short sexual experience they had eight years before. The war and Isabelle have changed him, however.


**BIRDSONG 4EVA! It's quite hard to ignore the sexual content in Birdsong, even if my teacher seems to believe that sex doesn't exist. I quite like Sebastian Faulks after this book. And not just due to the sex... that's what I read porn for, obviously.**

He'd told her that he only wanted her. He'd lied.

He didn't have to lie anymore.

From her perch on the window sill, she watched him push his way through the crowd, heading for the inn they had agreed upon as a meeting place. The war had definitely taken its toll on him. His eyes were sunken and his hair, even though he was on leave, was matted and hardly washed. He looked terrible. But to her, he was still the excitingly illicit Stephen; old enough to excite her but young enough to be realistic in her fantasies and, for just those few moments, reality.

He had reached the inn now and was out of sight. Carefully so as not to crumple her dress, she climbed off the sill and stepped into the centre of the room. No, that would seem as if she was waiting eagerly for him. Lounging seductively on the bed? Too contrived. Reading a book? Too nonchalant: he might think she was indifferent and leave. It was too late now, though: he was knocking on the door.

'Come in,' she said, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper in her excitement. She ran her hands down her front as the door opened, her hands passing over the places that he had touched her just eight years earlier. She shuddered at the memory.

He was standing in the doorway, his war-weary figure skeletal juxtaposed with the sturdy dark wood doorframe. She smiled weakly.

'Stephen,' she greeted, her voice artificially light. 'I'm glad you found it.'

He nodded tersely.

She smiled again, her muscles straining with the effort to keep her composure. She was a lady now; she could not give him the upper hand that she given up so naively as a sixteen year old child. 'Sit down,' she invited.

He sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed.

'Stephen,' she repeated softly. 'It's ok.'

He did not move.

'Have you –?' she began. She winced and drew breath. 'How have you been?'

He turned his face towards her. Her eyes ran over his face; from the wonky jaw to the small scars on his cheek to the stain of blood on his forehead. He'd been at war: that was the only answer possible.

'I don't want to hurt you,' he said bluntly.

'What do you mean?'

He was facing forward again, staring intently at the crack on the opposite wall. 'I've only touched one woman since….since the war, and I almost hurt her.'

He spoke so frankly that it shocked her. Gently, she placed her hands on his knee. He did react to the touch. 'You won't hurt me,' she breathed. 'You could never hurt me.'

He stood up and turned to look down on her. 'I scared you that day by the river.'

She tilted her head upwards proudly. Her reaction to that touch still burned her. But she had been a child then, she was a woman now. 'You won't scare me now.'

'You've been touched since then?'

She flushed but did not lower her gaze. 'Yes.'

He shrugged indifferently. 'Was he any good?'

She was taken aback by the question. 'I –' She didn't get to finish the faltering sentence for Stephen's hand was on her breast. He curled his fingers to cup her whole right breast. He moved closer and his raised his other hand to her left breast. She looked up at his face above hers. It was expressionless. After a pause, she placed her hands on top of his and stood up. He averted his eyes as her face came in front of his.

Her hand found his crotch. She had moved his hand beneath her dress before, but had not touched him. She pushed her hand under the waistband of his trousers. His cock was limp and dry in her hand. Looking up at his face, she saw that his eyes were closed and his mouth was set in a straight line.

'Stephen,' she whispered.

'No,' he replied shortly. He took a step back, opening his eyes. There was a short silence before he undid his belt. She stood by the bed and watched him undress in the centre of the room. Only when he was standing naked in front of her did she begin to take off her own clothes. His clothes lay in crumpled heaps across the wooden floorboards. Her dress and underwear sat loosely folded on the floor.

She stepped towards him, attempting elegance. He opened his arms and pulled in clumsily. Turning her head upwards, she pushed her lips against his. He stood limply.

She pulled away and looked sympathetically into his deadened eyes. 'Stephen,' she breathed.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When they snapped open again, he seemed to be invigorated with new energy. He spun her round and pushed her up against the wall. Her fingers clawed at the wall, her fingernails scraping in the crack.

His cock had stiffened and blood was pressing against the skin, highlighting the purple veins pulsing with anticipation. She felt him enter her and gasped. He pushed further into her and she clutched at his shoulders.

'Stephen!' she cried out.

'Isabelle,' he replied breathlessly.

The tension in her body released instantly. She pressed her fists against his bare chest. He bowed his head sheepishly. 'Lisette,' he corrected himself.

**I have been very negligent with updating my current stories. But fuck it. I recently read Birdsong and Lisette struck me. She reminded me of myself last year. I hope that I don't end up like this, though…**


End file.
